Night Film(61)

“What d’you think you’re doing?” she asked in a croaky masculine voice.

“Checking in on a friend,” I said.

She scurried toward us, hunched shoulders, flip-flops rapidly slapping her bare feet.

“What friend?”

“Ashley.”

“Who?”

“Kay,” Nora interjected. “He means Kay.”

The name made the woman stop short, unwilling to approach further. She had to be in her fifties, with mottled skin, also missing some teeth, giving her face the countenance of a crumbling statue.

“Where the hell is Kay?” she demanded. “You tell her she owes me three weeks’ rent. I’m not running a free shelter here.”

Hopper reached into his coat pocket, unfolding a piece of paper.

“Is this her?” he asked. It was a black-and-white photograph of Ashley. He must have printed it off the Internet, because I’d never seen it before—unless it was from his own collection, a snapshot taken at Six Silver Lakes. The woman didn’t move to look at it, only jutted out her chin.

“You’re cops?”

“No,” I said. “We’re friends of Kay’s.”

“When was the last time you saw her?” blurted Nora.

The woman glared at us. “I don’t talk to cops.”

“We’re not cops,” said Hopper, removing his wallet from his back pocket. The instant he flipped it open, the woman’s small black eyes swarmed it like flies over a turd. “Answer our questions, we’ll make it worth your while.” He held out three twenties, which she grabbed instantly, counting them, then sticking them down the front of her T-shirt.

“Is this Kay?” asked Hopper again, holding out the picture.

“Sure looks like her.”

“When did you last see her?” I asked.

“Weeks ago. That’s how come I came up. Heard all the creepin’ around, thought she came back to get her stuff and was trying to sneak past me. Any idea when Her Highness plans to show?”

“Not really.”

The news infuriated her. “I coulda rented this room five times over. Now I gotta get a locksmith up here. Clean out her shit.”

“Why a locksmith?” I asked.

She nodded at the door. “I don’ got the key to her room. She changed the locks on me.”

“Why?”

“Hell if I know.”

“What was she like?” asked Nora.

The woman grimaced. “Had duchess airs, if you ask me. Had a way of demanding things, like she thought she was a queen a’ England. Wanted me to fix the lights in the bathrooms ’cuz it was too dark for her, then the hot and cold tap. Musta mistaken this place for a f*ckin’ Marriott.”

“Do you know what she was doing in the city?” asked Nora.

The woman squinted as if faintly insulted. “You pay me on time, what you do in the room is your business. She did do me a favor once. I had to run out, and she watched my nephew a coupla hours. That I did appreciate. But then she changes the locks, runs out, stiffs me on the rent. I’m runnin’ a business. Not a charity.” She stared resentfully at the door again. “Now I gotta pay for a locksmith.”

“How long has she been living here?” I asked.

“ ’Bout a month. But I haven’t seen her for weeks.”

“And how did she hear about it?”

“Answered my ad. I got fliers posted around Port Authority.”

“How much to break the door down?” Hopper asked, running his hands along it. “We’ll also cover whatever Kay owed you in rent.”

“Uh, that’d be—oh, one-fifty. Plus any damage to the door.”

“Here’s three hundred.” He shoved a wad of bills at the woman, which she hastily grabbed, then he strode to the end of the hall, where there was a door with a grimy pane of glass—some sort of communal bathroom—and a fire extinguisher. He pulled the extinguisher free and moved back, raising it over his head and slamming it hard against the deadbolt.

He did this five times, the wood splintering, and then—with a laid-back ease that hinted he’d done this before—he tossed aside the canister, took a few steps back, and side-kicked it. The door flew open, cracking against the wall, and then closed, stopping so it was ajar about an inch.

For a moment, no one moved. Hopper pushed the door wider.

It was pitch-dark inside, light from the hallway barely illuminating the scarred concrete floor, walls of flaking blue paint.

There was also a noticeable stench—something rotten.

I turned, intending to ask the landlord when she’d last been inside Kay’s room, but she’d actually backed away.

“Gotta get downstairs,” she mumbled, then turned, flip-flops hammering her feet as she hurried down the hall. “Gotta check on my nephew.” She darted out, and within seconds could be heard clanging back downstairs.

“She’s afraid of something,” I said.

“It’s that smell,” whispered Nora.





35


Hopper took a step inside. I followed, sliding my hands along the wall, trying to find a light switch.

“Fuck,” he said, coughing. “The smell’s really bad.”